Page:Orange Grove.djvu/94

 "Why should we mourn," said Walter a few days after as they were sitting in the twilight, "when we know that he is so much happier? We shall miss him, oh yes."

"Is that some of your composition?" asked Rosalind, in the first familiar tone of voice since the evening before her father was taken sick, when they indulged in so much joking.

"Yes, I composed that and another verse the night after father was carried away, which I will repeat if you like. I never felt so lonely as I did then. While he was in the house it seemed as if angels were present, hovering about him, and I could not realize that he was not here and would never speak to us again. Then I thought how selfish it was if we really believe what we profess to, to cling so to our friends here. Don't you think so mother?"

"Certainly it is. After watching by your father's bedside and witnessing his suffering, I cannot describe the sensation of relief I experienced when his spirit passed its last mortal agony and soared beyond the reach of earthly pain, which I try to keep before me. What must come to us all has only come to him a little sooner. Where's your poetry?"